


Oh, Mercy, I Implore

by ShowMeAHero



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Churches & Cathedrals, M/M, Romance, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, get-together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:57:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham was meant for a different life. There were many paths he could have taken, but only one path on which he belonged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Mercy, I Implore

**Author's Note:**

> I needed this. I think we all, on some level, needed this.
> 
> Title taken from ["What Kind of Man" by Florence + The Machine.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgeKHTcufLY)

The Chiesa di San Cataldo in Palermo was a place Will Graham never should have known about. He never should have left Wolf Trap; he should have stayed in Virginia, or maybe even Louisiana, with his dogs for his entire life, blissfully unaware of people like Hannibal Lecter, and places like the Chiesa di San Cataldo. Blissfully unaware of who was lurking, dormant, waiting, right underneath the surface of his skin.

He stood in the Piazza Bellini, gazing with nearly-glazed eyes at the building. He absently noted the Arab-Norman architecture, the faded red domes, the Classical pillars, the distinctive Byzantine touches. The huge doorway arched at the top, and he glanced at the disaster the building seemed to slowly be becoming, rock giving way to nature, changing from what may have once been white to what was now most assuredly the dark greens and blacks of ending.

Will approached the tremendous doors, climbing the stone steps and letting his hands come loose from his pockets long enough to push his way inside. The door, too heavy to keep itself open, shut almost instantly behind him, Will just barely inside enough to avoid getting scraped back onto the steps. He was only partially pleased to find himself the only occupant of the church. His footsteps echoed through the towering ceilings and the endless stretches of walls. The overcast sky above let only a grey, filtered sort of sunlight in through the windows and the substantial skylight high over the altar.

As Will approached the altar, he could see one of the cushions out of place, a couple of candles shuffled as if hastily replaced by a steady hand, only slightly off their mark. A normal man would not have noticed. Will Graham was not a normal man.

Will ran his fingers over ancient brick and cobweb-laden candlesticks as he made his way to the altar. He knelt before the centerpiece, bowing his head and clasping his hands. He did not pray. He waited. He waited, and it took time, but Will could feel the echo of touch on the candles, and he knew he was not alone. He heard the ringing steps before long, a distinct gait, a light tread, long legs on soft-soled shoes. Will did not raise his head, did not look to see who was in the church with him. He already knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

The footsteps stopped at Will’s back, and fingertips - slow, but not hesitant - brushed against his hair. It pushed his hair out of place, into the style Will had attempted to comb it into in an attempt to appear presentable, but he always knew what Hannibal wanted, and it was to dishevel him, to take him apart. Hannibal’s fingertips ran down to the back of Will’s neck, pushing deeper into his hair until the pressure was more than apparent at the top notch of his spine, once Hannibal finally deigned to reach there.

Will exhaled all at once as Hannibal tugged at Will’s collar, pulling his head back and exposing his throat. Will let his head fall backwards, let Hannibal drag his fingertips over the expanse of his throat. He shut his eyes, and Hannibal’s touch drifted over his closed eyes. When the sensation vanished, Will opened his eyes. Hannibal stared back down at him, all crisp lines and white skin and everything Will had been lacking for months. For years. It had always been this.

“Will,” Hannibal murmured, and Will shut his eyes again. “You came.”

“Don’t act surprised,” Will whispered back. Hannibal pulled at Will’s collar again, yanking lightly at the scruff of his neck, and Will stood. Hannibal let a hand on his hip urge Will to turn until they were facing each other. “You always knew I’d come.”

“I hoped.”

“You knew,” Will repeated. The grey light filtering through the crimson stained glass towering over the altar marked Hannibal’s face in dark red. Will could not stop staring at the patterns, at the way the light reflected on his skin.

“Perhaps I did,” Hannibal allowed. He pulled at Will’s shirt, taking his time untucking it from his trousers. He lifted the shirt and ran his fingers over the scar left behind from the last time they were together. “I do apologize for any pain I might have caused you. You understand why I had to do this.”

“I’m not happy about it,” Will informed him, “but I do understand. I was never Jack’s man, Hannibal.”

“You were not mine,” Hannibal countered. Will tipped his head slightly. Hannibal glanced down at the scar tissue, raised under his hands.

“I was my own,” Will said eventually. “And what I wanted, for myself, was to run away with you. I just didn’t get a chance to do that right.”

“No, you did not,” Hannibal agreed, tone even. He began sliding Will’s shirt back into place around his tight belt, a notch knifed into the leather. “Why did you come?”

“You left me a trail,” Will reminded him. “You wanted me to find you.”

“I did not ask you what I did to lure you here.” Hannibal smoothed down the front of Will’s shirt, then removed his hands from him entirely. Will just barely stopped himself from chasing the touch. “I asked why you came.”

A beat of silence. Then, a confession:

“Because I had to.” Will looked at Hannibal, then past him, through him, his eyes remaining trained on Hannibal’s face while they saw something entirely different. “I wanted to kill Jack. I wanted to help _you_ kill Jack. I saw it.”

“Seeing is not wanting, Will.”

“It was both,” Will assured him. “I saw it, and I _wanted_ it.” Will’s eyes focused again, skimming over Hannibal’s nose, his cheekbones, gliding past his ears and settling on his throat for a moment before finding his eyes again. “I don’t know who I am.”

“You are Will Graham,” Hannibal informed him. His touch returned, sliding from Will’s elbows down to his wrists. “You are who you are. Let yourself be Will Graham. Do not be Jack Crawford, do not be Alana Bloom. Do not be who you are told that you are.”

“But what I am-”

“ _Who_ you are is who you are, Will,” Hannibal interrupted. He let one of his hands drift up, caressing Will’s face, thumbing at the corner of his mouth. Will tipped his head into the palm of Hannibal’s hand. “You cannot change it anymore than you could change me.” Hannibal pulled at Will’s lower lip with his thumb for a moment, leaning in until their foreheads were nearly touching. Will stared up at him, feeling as though he was about to go cross-eyed. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Will breathed, and Hannibal shoved their mouths together, managing delicacy in his roughness, a tender touch to the raw emotion bubbling under the surface. Will exhaled into his mouth, and Hannibal parted his lips easily. When he pulled back, Will did give in to more basic urges, chasing after his touch, but Hannibal stopped him with a hand guiding his chin.

“There will be time enough,” Hannibal assured him. “We have business to take care of.”

“You’re going to get caught,” Will murmured, and Hannibal stroked his thumb thoughtfully over the scruff at Will’s chin as he considered his answer.

“Hopefully, no, I will not get caught,” Hannibal replied. He let go of Will completely. “But if I do get caught, Will, we will both get caught.”

Will’s eyes searched Hannibal’s face. He saw himself reflected back, and he smiled. Hannibal smiled, just slightly, enough to reassure, enough to lock Will down. He looked down at Hannibal’s hands, then let one of his own drift across the small amount of space between them to flutter hesitantly against Hannibal’s fingers. He wrapped his hand around Hannibal’s after a moment of teasing, a test.

“Okay,” Will agreed. “Okay.”

In his mind’s eye, in the very back of his thoughts, he could see himself as he had fantasized before, helping Hannibal kill Jack at the dinner table. He could feel the power in his limbs, the surge of adrenaline rushing through the veins, the pulsing feeling of _right_ that ached when he was not himself. Hannibal led him from the church back to his Palermo residence, and he and Will reenacted Will’s vision almost to a T, but with a casting change at the last moment, Bedelia having to step in in Jack’s absence. Will had never felt more alive.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicoIodeon](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


End file.
